


Volcada

by thegreatpumpkin



Series: Tango Apasionado [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 11:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12131025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: Volcada: a falling step. The leader causes the follower to tilt or lean forward and fall off her axis before he catches her again.  The movement requires the support of a close embrace. (Or, the Great Depression is hard on Hotel Gondolin, and Ecthelion is hard on Glorfindel's emotional well-being.)





	Volcada

Glorfindel lit a cigarette, rolled from the ends of too many other cigarettes; the match flared in the dim space, briefly illuminating the marble underfoot, until Glorfindel shook it out again.

The dog-end tobacco made his mouth taste like the bottom of a sewer, but at least he’d be less hungry. He smiled wryly to himself and tried to believe bad breath was the reason Ecthelion had turned away from him last night, catching his kiss on the cheek instead of the lips and murmuring distantly about being too tired.

He inhaled; the cigarette glowed. Nothing was illuminated.

There was a window, far to the other side, letting in a misty glow of cloudy-afternoon light that didn’t reach all the way to where Glorfindel stood beside the bar. There were shadows of broken and overturned chairs, the dark silhouette of the forgotten bandstand; the tables were gone, shuffled off and sold to who-knows-where when the axe had fallen. Beyond that there was little left in the ballroom that was not nailed down, excepting a gramophone and a few record sleeves on the bar-top, and of course Glorfindel himself.

He didn't know why he was here, why he came back time after time when there was nothing here to come back for. _Because you like making yourself miserable,_ Ecthelion's voice taunted in the back of his mind, but Ecthelion didn't get a say right now. Especially not when he wasn’t even really here.

Glorfindel lit another match, the long fingers of his other hand spreading out the small stack of records, tracing their titles. He'd been thinking of a foxtrot when he'd come in, but nothing jumped out at him. He hesitated over a slow, sad waltz, but the match was burning low and he had to blow it out before he'd decided.

Maybe it was a bad idea anyway, dancing on this floor. Musicians were a superstitious lot, he'd be the first to admit—maybe it wasn't a good idea to stir up Hotel Gondolin's ghosts. Still, it had been a long time since he'd had a real floor to dance on, and something ravenous in him longed to hear music echo through this ballroom again. He’d been happy here, genuinely happy.

He wondered whether this was an immutable part of growing older—the disenchantment, the yearning, the loss. There were a lot of things lost, things that could not be regained.

He’d known for awhile, and hadn’t wanted to know.

She was a nice girl, Glorfindel thought, and he couldn’t blame her. Young for a widow; not flush, but in the black from her late husband's careful finances. It was only natural she'd set her eyes on Ecthelion. He was handsome and charming, of course—and poor enough to entice the sort of well-set-up lady who liked a sad story to set right.

And single. He'd always been very clear on _that_ point to any pretty young woman who might cross their path. Once Glorfindel had tolerated that with amused indulgence, considering it a sop to Ecthelion's somewhat fragile self-image, but it had long since worn thin. Still, he hadn’t expected that the shameless flirting would ever turn into anything more, not when Glorfindel was always the one he came home with.

It was amazing, the lies you could tell yourself and wholeheartedly believe.

He should have known it was always going to go this way, should have protected himself from it from the very beginning, but—God, they’d had such _fun_. It had been, what, seven years now? Eight? It only felt like a handful, despite all that had happened. He didn’t feel old, despite the way his back ached first thing in the mornings.

For a minute he could see everything just how it was back then: the ballroom electric-lit and glittering, the bartop polished till it glowed. Dawn lurking pale just beyond the curtained windows. The lot of them drunk and rowdy in the green room after the last set. Ecthelion accidentally falling across his lap in merry inebriation and deciding not to make the effort of getting up again because _no one here minded, after all_.

They’d fallen asleep on that couch, Ecthelion’s head still in his lap. He hadn’t minded the hangover when they woke in the afternoon, or only making it home long enough to change his drawers and iron his shirt before having to come straight back. That wasn’t unusual, really. He supposed he hadn’t been kind to his body back then, but his heart had been getting fed more than enough to make up the difference.

The longing was like a physical pressure, a winch anchored beneath his sternum trying to wind him back to the center of the floor. He resisted the tug. It wasn’t the same without a partner. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d danced, but back _then_ —

His fingers still rested on the waltz. He lifted the record out of its sleeve, putting it on the spindle by feel in the darkness, and gave the handle a few good turns.

Waltz had never been their dance of choice, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t make a go of it. Ecthelion tended to take the lead on waltzes, which Glorfindel was happy to allow; he found it easier to follow, given Ecthelion had taught him to waltz in the first place. There had been another gramophone then, a top-of-the-line one, Turgon’s; nothing like the secondhand beast Glorfindel had dragged in now. 

Sometimes at the end of the night, Turgon’s daughter Idril and her friends would take pity on the more charm-challenged among them and hold impromptu dance lessons. There were never enough women to go around, of course; Idril only had so many friends, and her haughty cousin would only agree to dance with Salgant (Glorfindel never understood that choice, but it took all kinds). Under such conditions, even Ecthelion could hardly feel self-conscious having Glorfindel as his partner.

Those had been the best times: Ecthelion counting out the steps into Glorfindel’s ear in his quiet, precise voice, comfortable in his affection for once, while the gramophone sang out merrily in the background.

The widow wasn’t much of a dancer, but she was young and pretty and female, which was good enough. No, that was him being petty; she had plenty to recommend her. Ten years ago he would have called it a good match.

Ten years ago Ecthelion had never been his, and he’d been resigned to the thought that he never would be.

That was the real truth—once he’d had the taste of that reality, Glorfindel was never going to go back voluntarily, even knowing how much it would hurt later. Once he knew what Ecthelion looked like first waking up, the way he hummed to himself when reading new sheet music, how his hair curled when it was freshly washed—he was never going to make any other choice.

After Gondolin folded, two years ago, things had been lean. It had only made sense to pool their meager resources and share living space, and since Glorfindel’s landlady was far more likely to take a sob story in lieu of rent during bad weeks, that was where they’d ended up. It wasn’t exactly the glittering domestic picture he’d once dreamed of—less an Arrow Collar ad and more grim practicality—but it had kept him moving on days without bread and warm on nights without heat. He guessed he’d been stupid enough to believe Ecthelion was getting by the same way, satisfied with what they were to one another if not with what they had.

It wasn’t as if Glorfindel had never looked at anyone else, of course. He looked plenty. But looking was all that it was—he didn’t have the same hang-ups about their involvement that Ecthelion did, and no one tempted him more than Ecthelion himself.

He switched the turntable on, lifted the arm and laid the needle into the groove by the light of another struck match. He probably shouldn’t have wasted it; the book was nearly empty. The waltz crackled to life.

He didn’t jump at the hand on his shoulder—some part of him had heard Ecthelion come in through the side door he’d left just slightly ajar and pick his way across the space to come up behind. He should have expected that Ecthelion would find him; he always did.

“Not your usual style,” Ecthelion said quietly, indicating the waltz. There was a question in his voice.

Glorfindel didn’t answer, not even when Ecthelion moved closer and slid an arm around his waist, resting his chin on Glorfindel’s shoulder. His silence was answer enough, in a way.

Ecthelion sighed. “All right. If it’s like that, then.” Glorfindel supposed from his perspective, it was all a little overdramatic; after all, he’d never sworn fidelity, and he’d always been clear about his continued interest in women. How could he be blamed if Glorfindel had not taken him at his word? Still, his next words were like salt on the wound. “One last waltz for old times’ sake?”

So this was it, then.

Glorfindel still had no sense of self-preservation. It would hurt, and he would do it anyway, because addiction was a powerful thing. He nodded.

Once upon a time the dance floor had been flooded with couples, the large space made close and warm and full of light. It seemed cavernous now, too large for the two of them as Ecthelion drew him out onto it. The waltz seemed scratchy and distant, the battered gramophone inadequate for the majesty of the ballroom, even abandoned and in disrepair.

But the dancing was right. It always was.

Ecthelion kindly let him forget the circumstances, drawing him in closer than was strictly proper for a waltz; Glorfindel half-expected him to count the steps against his ear like old times, though he did not go quite that far. Glorfindel wanted to close his eyes, tuck his head in against Ecthelion’s shoulder.

He kept them open. He made himself watch.

They might be older, but Ecthelion had only grown more devastatingly elegant. Even in their reduced circumstances, his suit mended so many times it was more thread than fabric, hanging looser on his shoulders than it ever had. Even when Glorfindel had seen him in his least dignified moments, in despair and uncontrollable laughter, in rage, in sleepy contentment. He danced as if he were born for it, as if his scuffed spectator shoes never quite touched the floor, and Glorfindel had never been able to do better than when he was floating along behind Ecthelion’s lead.

They might be older, but Ecthelion was just as charming as he ever had been. Even as he tried to focus, tried to pretend for just a little longer, Glorfindel could not help remembering how he'd charmed the pretty heiress. Arguably innocent things at first, his usual flirtations; but Glorfindel had not been too drunk later to notice him plying her for a kiss, or the teasing back-and-forth between them.

They had been like that once, stolen kisses and all. When they were first— _first what?_ Glorfindel asked himself, because he might have said _sweethearts_ if he'd been a pretty widow, but he was not, and the term implied a sort of commitment he clearly had no claim on. Never mind. What he meant was that when they'd first come together, they'd been just the same, playful and testing limits, taking it by turns to be pursuer and pursued. It ached to recognize that first flush of giddy attraction between Ecthelion and someone else.

Ecthelion couldn't read his mind, of course, but he seemed to know Glorfindel's mood. He gave him a soft, sad smile as they turned, his eyes flicking briefly around the dim room before returning to Glorfindel. “We had a good run, didn’t we?”

It was too much, to ask him to reminisce now. He wanted to go gentle, but he didn’t have it in him. “Don’t,” he said at last, softly, though he did give in to temptation, laying his head against Ecthelion’s shoulder.

Ecthelion went quiet, stopping the dance mid-step to wrap both arms around him. 

Glorfindel shook his head, pulling back, a faint thread of desperation rising in his chest. “No, I want to finish this—”

But the waltz had ended. The needle skimmed too far inward, no doubt scratching gouges in the label, making a quietly awful sound, and all Glorfindel could think was: _I wasn’t ready. I didn’t realize it was nearly over._

He pulled away abruptly, unable to stand it. Maybe he’d go up to the roof, another place to confront memories that were still less painful and immediate than the reality of Ecthelion standing here before him. Maybe he’d stare over the edge and contemplate the distance to the ground, although he knew that was only his mind’s way of being dramatic.

Ecthelion did not seem inclined to make things easy, though. “I miss it too, you know, but—”

There was nothing Glorfindel wanted less in the world than to know what lurked at the end of that sentence. He busied himself with the gramophone, as if he could be distracted enough not to hear.

“—maybe you shouldn’t keep coming here.” Not what he’d been bracing for, but almost as bad, when he could hear the unspoken _after I’m gone_ lingering in the murky light between them. He supposed it wasn’t odd for Ecthelion still to care; they had been friends first, after all. But it all might have hurt less if concern wasn’t written in every line of Ecthelion’s figure.

When Glorfindel didn’t answer, Ecthelion drew a little closer, not yet reaching for him but looking as if he wanted to. “You did everything you could. We all did.” They had, too—taking pay cuts, working for free at the end even when none of them could afford it. Doing everything short of bodily carrying people through the door to drum up business. 

Sometimes everything wasn’t enough. In business, in love. _That_ was the real truth of growing older, Glorfindel thought.

Ecthelion, plainly unused to Glorfindel being the silent one, was getting nervous. “Come on, Goldenflower, say something. You’re spooking me.”

Glorfindel spread his hands, palm up, a shrug and a gesture of helplessness. “What do you want from me? If you’re going to leave, just do it, and don’t try to extort promises for my own good out of me first.”

Ecthelion dropped his own hands, form gone slack with surprise. “If I’m— _what_?”

“Did you want to wait until you have her properly on the hook?” Glorfindel struggled to be gracious, not quite succeeding. “It isn’t really necessary. She’s quite taken with you.”

“ _Glorfindel,_ ” Ecthelion said, his voice gone low and rueful. “No. It isn’t—oh, hell. Is that why you’re out here? I thought it was just nostalgia.”

Irritation hardened him somewhat against the misery. “If you were intending to keep it a secret, maybe you should have been more discreet.”

Ecthelion groaned, pressing his fingertips against his closed eyes as if trying to chase a deep-set headache. He took a frustrated breath, then a second calmer one. “No, you’re right, I’ve been an idiot. I’m not _leaving_. I’m just…”

Worse and worse. “No? Which of us would you have kept on the side?” A stupid question. “Me, I suppose. How did you imagine that was going to work?”

“Of course not!” Ecthelion dragged his hands back through his hair; apparently, Glorfindel _was_ the headache. “Damn it, Glorfindel, I’m not immune to—” despite the words, he’d gone rueful again, apologetic. “I was being stupid, I know. It was nice to be reminded that I could...have that, if I wanted to.”

“Might as well take it,” Glorfindel said, with less rancor than he tried for. “The next one might not have money.”

Ecthelion sucked in a breath, as if he’d been punched.

“No, I mean it.” Glorfindel did, as little as that mattered. “It’s what you want eventually. Why not now? I know you don’t have trouble with the ladies, but I don’t know that you’ll get a better offer.”

Ecthelion didn’t try to deny the assertion. “I’m not—I’m not ready.”

Glorfindel laughed, bitterly. “Neither was I. I always knew, I guess. I just thought it would be longer before I had to face the music.”

“ _Glorfindel_ ,” Ecthelion said again, soft and agonized. “Look, I know I’m an ass. But I’m—” he stole closer, caught Glorfindel in an embrace before he could dodge back. Glorfindel, admittedly, didn’t make much of a bid for escape. “I mean, I’m never going to be ready. Two years, ten years, thirty. I keep looking out ahead and it’s always _not yet_.”

“Yeah? What about Widow Warbucks?”

Ecthelion tipped his head forward until it rested on Glorfindel’s shoulder. “I know you’ve never felt the need to prove anything to yourself—” _Ha!_ Glorfindel thought— “but not everybody’s lucky enough to be _you_. You’re right, that’s what I wanted, the wife and two-ish terrible children in a Madison Avenue brownstone.”

“You’d be a terrible father,” Glorfindel said, because what else could he say?

“And a worse husband,” Ecthelion muttered against his lapel.

“You could have it, though.” Glorfindel gave up even pretending he was trying to be gracious. “Even if you didn’t deserve it.” And then, after a beat, “Not the brownstone, probably, she’s hardly a Rockefeller.”

Ecthelion snorted. “I’m trying to tell you. I’m pretty sure that...the brownstone’s the only part I’d even want, anymore.”

“Holding out for someone prettier? Risky move.” Banter was easier than engaging, easier than breaking his own heart again.

Ecthelion made a noise of irritation. “Can you let me have my moment of realization here? I’m about to get to the _turns out I was missing the good thing right in front of me_ part.”

Part of Glorfindel wanted to smile—the foolish part, the part that had put him here in the first place. The part that would forget all about it until the next time. Instead, he snapped, “Sorry, this isn’t a Dickens novel. My patience for your self-improvement stops short of the part where you’re petting some sweet young thing that would introduce you to her mother if you gave her half a chance.”

“Yeah,” Ecthelion said quietly, pressing his face against the side of Glorfindel’s, and Glorfindel had to grit his teeth and close his eyes not to turn into the contact. “That was a significant mistake, I’ll grant.” Glorfindel started to say something else sharp, but Ecthelion drew a breath and went on. “I’m sorry, Glorfindel. I didn’t come in prepared for—I thought we were saying goodbye to this place, not to... _us._ ”

“ _‘One last waltz, for old times sake?’_ ” Glorfindel quoted back, trying to disentangle himself, though his heart wasn’t in it.

“I didn’t mean—that wasn’t our last _dance_ , I hope.” Ecthelion tugged him back, gently, his expression earnest; Glorfindel let it happen. “Forget the waltz. Too restrained, I never liked it anyway. What are all the young sheiks dancing these days? Jitter Bug?”

“As if I would know.” Glorfindel could feel himself softening, despite it all.

Ecthelion knew him well enough to read it, and even in the dim light, his smile was dazzling. “Well, never mind. No passing fad can compete with the classics.”

“No?”

“Put on some Gardel and let me prove it,” Ecthelion said, softly, and Glorfindel was helpless to do anything else.

It would still hurt: dancing through this empty space that had once been home; loving Ecthelion when Ecthelion might still change his mind, in the end. It would hurt, and he would do it anyway, because _Por Una Cabeza_ was in the stack of records he’d brought—and because Ecthelion was in his heart, irrevocably.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Things had been lean_ : Honestly, for immigrants that were just scraping by _before_ the Depression, Glorfindel and Ecthelion probably have it unrealistically good here. They still have somewhere to live, and have managed to hold on to a few things of minor value—Glorfindel his gramophone and records, Ecthelion his trumpet (though it doesn’t appear in the fic). Speakeasies like Hotel Gondolin suffered after the stock market crash, and the repeal of Prohibition in 1933 was the last nail in the coffin for most of them. Like many New Yorkers, Glorfindel and Ecthelion spend the 30s taking whatever work they can get.
> 
>  _An Arrow Collar ad_ : If you don’t know about [JC Leyendecker](https://www.collectorsweekly.com/articles/the-perfect-american-male/), you really should.
> 
>  _Widow Warbucks_ : Yes, Glorfindel is making a snide Little Orphan Annie reference.
> 
>  _Jitter Bug_ : The name of the dance is all one word. However, this fic is set in 1935, one year after Cab Calloway’s eponymous song “Jitter Bug” was released, so it seemed sensible to write it this way.
> 
>  _Gardel_ : Carlos Gardel was a hugely popular tango musician in the late 20s and 30s, who helped popularize tango in the US. In short, Ecthelion is proposing a return to the dance that brought them together in the first place.
> 
>  _Por Una Cabeza_ : A Carlos Gardel song that came out in 1935. Technically Glorfindel should not have money to buy new records, but I couldn’t resist—it’s lyrically appropriate, given its theme of gambling on love even though you might get hurt, and it’s also [the song I listened to while writing Salida](https://youtu.be/xvV_botDNWQ) (or at least an arrangement of it!)


End file.
